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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29435862">The Trouble with Seeing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/F117_Nighthawk/pseuds/F-117%20Nighthawk'>F-117 Nighthawk (F117_Nighthawk)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Episode: e128 Heavy Goods (The Magnus Archives), I'm still not entierly clear on what exactly the Archivists is, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Martin Blackwood Has a Crush on Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, The Magnus Archives Season 4, i think, is it a special Beholding avatar?, really this is sjust an excuse for me to write scary Jon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:47:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29435862</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/F117_Nighthawk/pseuds/F-117%20Nighthawk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon shows a little more power than Basira is comfortable with when confronted with Breekon. Martin just wants Jon to be alright.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Trouble with Seeing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So at the beginning of this semester, I went poking through my podcasts app looking for something to listen to that wasn't music while troubleshooting circuits for one of my labs, since I didn't really want to listen to Wolf 359 Yet Again and didn't feel like a Nightvale day. The algorithm threw me The Magnus Archives and since I somehow ended up listening to The Mechanisms before that I figured what the hell, I'll try it.<br/>I've listened to 130 episodes in a month. I think it'd suffice to say I'm hooked. And when 128 happened I actually went back and listened to the beginning again because a) what the hell Jon, b)it is EXACTLY the sort of thing I absolutely love, I mean go look at my Voltron stuff I have posted (and the stuff I don't have posted) and tell me eldritch horror powers presenting themselves suddenly in both obvious and subtle ways isn't exactly my jam and c) <em>what the hell, Jon.</em></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Basira freezes when she feels the… presence, for lack of a better word, behind her. She’s halfway through the front entrance to the Institute, and not even Rosie is here yet, the <em> lights </em> aren’t on, so there is obviously <em> something </em> wrong about the delivery man slipping in behind her, a large wooden box being pushed in front of him. That’s when she catches the words on the van outside.</p><p>
  <em> Breekon and Hope. </em>
</p><p>The box is so clearly a coffin now, the man behind it grinning a dour grin at her, and her heart leaps into her throat. If one finds Breekon, Hope cannot be far behind, and if <em> they </em> survived, then <em> who else? </em></p><p>Breekon stops in front of her and says, low, but not quite menacing somehow, “Don’t say a word.”</p><p>The door to the Institute proper opens behind her, and she glances at it to find Jon standing in the dark square of the door. He’s casually leaning against the door jamb, cane held in one hand and eyes an almost manic bright she can make out even without light. Some idle part of her is wondering why the hell he’s here, did he sleep, did he <em> leave? </em> Or do the Archives <em> not let him? </em> “Jon, don’t turn on the light. Go find Melanie.”</p><p>“It’s alright, Basira. I know he’s here,” he says, staring straight at Breekon like the lobby is sunlit at midday. </p><p>She’ll deal with how he knew Breekon was here later. “So what are you doing?” </p><p>“I imagine he’s here to deliver something. Thought it might need <em>signing</em> <em>for.”</em></p><p>Breekon laughs at that, falling into what might almost be called banter with Jon, were it not that they serve the antithesis of each other, and Jon is literally dragging words out of him. Barisa almost doesn’t register the odd noise that accompanies Jon’s compulsions, not quite like static, but not something a human throat should be able to make, least of all while still talking. It’s not something she’s ever heard before when he did them in front of her before--before the wax museum. Before his coma.</p><p>She’s pretty sure that’s not a good thing.</p><p>Jon sighs in frustration when Breekon refuses to answer her and she hears it again, the soft static that has no business here. <em> “Why </em> are you <em> here?” </em></p><p>Breekon shrugs. “Dunno. 'S not right, on my own. Not right. No point in doing it on my own. Don't know what happens now.” He pauses, looking between Basira and Jon before settling on the Archivist’s glaring eyes. “Thought I might kill you. Missed my chance. Thought I might just deliver something. So here’s a coffin.” He slides it towards the door to the Archives, the grin back on his face. “In case you want--to join your friend.”</p><p>She sees red for a moment, this--this <em> thing, </em> that trapped Daisy in there, how <em> dare </em> it just slide it forward with a grin like it’s nothing like it’s <em> empty-- </em> “Get out.”</p><p>“Basira,” Jon’s warning comes too late, as Breekon has turned his attentions on her. She knows he’s looking for a fight, looking for death because without Hope, he is nothing, and in this moment, she will <em> gladly </em> give it to him. “Get. Out.”</p><p>Breekon grins. <em> “Make me.” </em></p><p>She takes a step forward as he does, intent on throwing him out with far more force than necessary and then the static noise is back, building upon itself and getting louder, building to something almost musical and--</p><p>“Stop.”</p><p>She stops, frozen, and she can’t tell if it’s of her own free will. Breekon is also frozen, eyes wide and staring behind her. His voice shakes, and she barely hears it over the static that’s still there, higher-pitched and heavy. “What are you doing?”</p><p>Barisa turns, slowly, the only speed she can manage, the only speed she <em> dares. </em> Jon is standing as straight as he can, gaze focused on a spot somewhere about Breekon’s forehead, and his eyes are vacant but--</p><p>They’re not quite <em> glowing, </em> but she’s hard-pressed to find another word for it. It’s like they’re backlit, power emanating out of them with the static that’s <em> still there, </em> piercing and high and crawling through her skin and all at once she feels uncomfortably <em> seen. </em> “Jon, what are you doing?”</p><p>Breekon twitches, a hand coming to shield his eyes from a nonexistent light. “What are you-- stop it.”</p><p>The Archivist doesn’t move, but the static somehow manages to get louder, rumbling through the lobby of the Institute like thunder, and his eyes are as vacant as before but somehow just slightly <em> off, </em> like they’re someone else’s eyes, or someone else is using his while he uses another’s.</p><p><em> “Stop it!” </em> Breekon cries, a single tear forcing its way out of his eyes.</p><p>
  <b> <em>“No.”</em> </b>
</p><p>That single word echoes through the static and Breekon flinches away, breaking into whimpers and begging, <em> begging, </em> so much that Basira almost feels a flash of pity-- “E--Enough--stop--stop <em> looking at me!” </em>The Archivist doesn’t move, doesn’t speak again. The static grows to a crescendo, and Breekon flees, tearing out of the Insitute doors like a rabbit fleeing from a pack of hounds, but his movements are stilted, almost like a puppet’s.</p><p>Jon lets out a gasp as Breekon’s truck drives away; the static fades almost instantly. He stumbles into the doorframe, barely keeping himself upright between it and his cane. Basira hesitates, not sure if he would accept a bit of help.</p><p>Not sure if she would even offer it of her own free will.</p><p><em> That’s a stupid thought, </em> she reminds herself, <em> since when has Jon asked for help, ever, much less </em> compelled <em> it from someone? </em></p><p><em> (Yes, but since when has he been able to </em>compel actions?)</p><p>“Jon?” she settles on.</p><p>“It’s fine!” he says, a little hurriedly and still breathing hard. “Get me a pen.”</p><p>She grabs a pen from Rosie’s desk and makes him at least sit in one of the statement rooms. He’s shaking like a leaf; whether from excitement or exhaustion, she’s not actually sure. He calms slightly once he has a paper under his hand and a tape-recorder (that was, of course, already running when she hustled him into the room) by his elbow. Martin passes by on his way into the Institute and does a double-take, pausing at the doorway, staring wide-eyed at Jon. Jon doesn’t notice, doesn’t notice Martin’s concern or Basira’s horrified fascination as he scribbles the same words he speaks, Breekon’s history bleeding into the paper like the blood he doesn’t seem to notice is silently trickling from his nose. His eyes grow vacant as he finishes, staring at the scrawl on the paper like he doesn’t know how to read. “Statement… ends.”</p><p>Martin barely catches him before he collapses into the table. “Jon!”</p><p>“He’s out,” Basira sighs. </p><p>“What the hell happened? Why is he--what is he doing, why is he <em> bleeding?” </em></p><p>“Why should I know? One minute I’m facing down a Stranger who should be dead, the next, he’s out the door screaming to stop looking at him, and Jon is telling me to get him a pen.”</p><p>Martin’s looking at Jon with enough soft, loving concern it’s almost enough to make her gag. “He must have overexerted himself.”</p><p>“Can that even happen?”</p><p>Martin shrugs. “Come on; I’ll help you get him down to his office.”</p><p>“What, nothing from the great Peter Lukas to do today?”</p><p>Martin glares at her, even as he’s gently maneuvering Jon into his arms. “I can’t stay for longer than that.”</p><p>She grabs Jon’s cane and follows, gently guiding the few people in the Institute at the moment out of the way so the Archivist isn’t thoroughly embarrassed when he wakes up. Martin gently deposits Jon on the couch in the Archives’ break room, leaving Basira to wipe the blood off his face while Martin bustles about behind her. He comes back with a cup of tea, the smell exactly what sometimes wafts out of Jon’s office. Basira raises an eyebrow at him; Martin gives her a sheepish smile and sets it down. “Two sugars, no milk, if he wants more.”</p><p>“You’re hopeless.”</p><p>“I’ve acknowledged that fact,” Martin sighs. “He’ll be alright, right?”</p><p>She wants to tell him no, Jon won’t be alright, because whatever he just did in the lobby was <em> not </em> something a human should be able to do. She wants to tell him about the static, about how she just <em> froze, </em> about Breekon’s hysterical begging to <em> not be seen. </em> But that would shatter any fragile hope still in Martin’s heart, and as much as she may not trust him or his new master, she won’t be the one to do that.</p><p>“Yes, Martin, he’ll be alright.”</p>
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